Desserts
by anactoria
Summary: Leon and D learn a little about trust. Through the medium of confectionery. Series of linked ficlets written for the stagesoflove challenge community on LJ.
1. Apple Pie

**Author:** Anactoria

**Characters: **Leon, D

**Rating:** PG-13

Series of linked ficlets written for the stagesoflove challenge community on Livejournal.

* * *

1. Prompt: Pie

"Apple pie, Detective? How very American."

D's voice is rich and cold as cream, and he's smirking. Well, that's nothing new. When is he not smirking? And normally Leon would be starting to get pissed around now, but he's just gotten off after a fourteen-hour day, and okay, he's used to looking at dead chicks by now but most of them aren't eleven fucking years old, and he doesn't have the energy for a shouting match or the presence of mind for a snarky retort, so he just scrubs at his eyes and nods. "Guess so."

"You must have gone out of your way," D goes on, raising a manicured eyebrow. "The bakeries at this end of Chinatown tend towards the more... upmarket end of the scale. They don't specialize in traditional home-cooking. I wonder why that is?"

He picks up a gleaming silver cake-slice, and the pastry crunches softly as he cuts into it.

Leon's mom made apple pie, sometimes. Sunday afternoons, usually, about the only time she didn't have to work. And sure, he didn't exactly have the apple-pie kind of childhood-- she was always slaving away, ten hour shifts at some shitty, underpaid job just to make ends meet, and his dad was never there, and somehow she never did manage to find a guy who didn't screw her around-- but she _tried_, dammit, and that had to be worth something, right?

Of course, he's not gonna come out and say any of that to _D_, and the inevitable needling he knows is going to come next makes him contemplate just cutting out right now and going home. But maybe some of it is showing on his face, because for once D doesn't push his luck. He just smiles, with what might actually be a trace of sympathy, and adds, "It's very kind of you, of course. Pie, Detective?"

So Leon just shrugs, settles back onto the couch, and says, "Sure. Why not?"


	2. Raspberry Sauce

2. Prompt: Icecream

* * *

_Big bro! Look! D bought us icecream!_

Chris hurtles towards Leon so fast he almost trips over, and holds the cone up with an excited, sticky grin. It's covered in violently red raspberry sauce, and a few drops splatter onto the sidewalk as the icecream tilts precariously in Chris's six-year-old grip.

Leon can't help thinking about the dead woman, then. Seven months pregnant when her boyfriend came at her with the kitchen knife, and it's one crime scene Leon's never going to forget. Looked like something out of a horror movie, except the smell made goddamn sure Leon knew it was real, and then the cop on his left swallowed and muttered something about just another no-good crackwhore, and it was all Leon could do not to smack him in the mouth. It's gonna stay with him for months.

So when he says, "I'm not eating that," he's scowling, and his voice comes out rougher than he intended.

Chris's grin wobbles, vanishes.

"Shit," Leon says, sighing. "I'm sorry. It's all right, kiddo. I-- "

But Chris's lower lip is already trembling, and then Chris has his face hidden in the skirt of D's cheongsam, fists bunched in the embroidered silk, smearing icecream and raspberry sauce everywhere. And D just meets Leon's gaze over his head, eyebrows drawn together, and gives him the Look.

For once, Leon's glad that he has to be back on duty in twenty minutes. He mumbles something about traffic and turns tail, heaving a sigh of relief once he's round the corner and free from D's reproving stare. He's still going to be in for it later, but work gives him an excuse not to think about that for the rest of the afternoon.

Leon gets pretty drunk that night, and he manages to forget about the dead woman and his own goddamn motormouth stupidity and the _fucking_ raspberry sauce for most of the evening.

And the only reason he ends up outside the shop at 2:30 in the morning is that the bartender wouldn't give him back his keys and Chinatown's closer than his place, and the only reason he's so relieved when D doesn't look pissed off is that he's dog-tired and doesn't want to be yelled at. And the weak tea D pours for him and D's cool hand on his forehead are only soothing because it's the middle of July, he's sweating like a pig, and he needs to lie down.

But even so, when he wakes up the next morning with a stinking hangover and a kitten trying to climb his head, he can't help feeling like somehow, everything's okay.


	3. Fathers' Day

3. Prompt: Cookies

* * *

"Peanut-butter cookies? Didn't think these were your usual thing, Count." Leon picks one up between his fingers. It's star-shaped, and slightly lopsided, like something drawn by an unskilled hand. The one next to it has a smiley face, all done in rainbow sprinkles, and that's lopsided, too.

D sniffs. "Chris brought them from school. A Fathers' Day project, apparently."

Leon takes a bite and flops down on the couch, snorting. That's bullshit, if you ask him. Just an excuse to sell more cards and candy and useless crap that no-one's ever going to look at again after the thank-yous have been said.

And way to rub in the fact that neither he nor Chris has a father worth speaking of, just assholes who dropped off the face of the earth and left Mom in the lurch when she needed them most.

It's not that way anymore, though. Leon's gonna make damn sure of that. He's old enough to take care of Chris now, be a father-figure to him. And Chris has D, too.

He shakes his head. Where did _that_ come from?

Speaking of D, he isn't making the usual polite chit-chat today. He looks kind of-- pensive, in fact, and he isn't stuffing his face the way he normally does when faced with something sugary. (Okay, sure, D's manners are never less than Emily Post-perfect, but Leon knows face-stuffing when he sees it, no matter how fancily it's dressed up.)

"D?" he says, a shade more cautiously than usual. "You okay, man?"

D blinks then, and composes his features into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Quite well, thank you, Detective," he says, smoothly, and plucks a cookie off the plate.

But he only takes the tiniest bite and then lapses back into thought, turning it over between his slender fingers.

Of course. The shop apparently belongs to D's grandfather, but Leon's never once heard D voluntarily mention his father. Perhaps he doesn't get on with his old man. Family argument, or something. Which figures, if they're anything alike; two of the smug little bastards in one room would be too much for anybody to handle.

Still, he knows it has to be tough. Not having a dad was bad enough, but Leon never argued with his mom, not really. He can't imagine what it's like having parents you can't stand.

"Hey," he tries, and puts a hand on D's forearm, gently as he knows how. "It's okay. My dad was an asshole too, you know. I get it."

"I'm sure you do." D's tone is as condescending as ever, but then Chris races into the front room with the raccoon and that weird goat-thing hot on his heels, and the shadow lifts a little from his eyes.


	4. Brief Candles

4. Prompt: Cake

* * *

The candles light up Chris's face as he leans over the birthday cake, cheeks puffed out and eyebrows lowered in concentration. He looks like he should be telling ghost stories at a sleepover, flashlight held under his chin to throw up ghoulish shadows.

Course, Chris doesn't have the kind of friends you go to slumber parties with. But if he did, he'd at least be able to come out with something more interesting than the old serial-killer-on-the-car-roof bullshit.

D's face is illuminated, too, but somehow he manages to look as though the light belongs to him -- as though the candles are inside his skull, his skin the paper of a lantern. D suits ghoulish. It figures.

Chris blows out the final candle with a determined puff, and D turns away to flick on the lights. Leon slaps Chris on the back, and the damned goat-thing that's perched on the couch beside him lets out an indignant-sounding growl, but Chris is beaming.

"Make a wish, squirt," Leon tells him. "Seven, huh? You're gonna be all grown up before I know it."

_But then you'll be_ old, Chris objects, eyes widening.

"Not a chance." Leon grins. "You're as young as you act, right? And D here is always going on about how immature I am, so..." He waves a hand.

Chris frowns, then nods, apparently satisfied, and jumps down off the couch to run after the animals. Leon slumps back against it with a sigh.

D looks at him across the table, gaze steady and unfathomable.

Leon cocks his head. "What's up?"

"I must confess," D murmurs, lowering his eyes, transferring a slice of cake onto one of his dainty little china plates, "I've always found the celebration of birthdays... difficult to understand. Another year over; another step closer to the grave. A yearly reminder of human mortality. It seems a little morbid, does it not?"

Christ. Leon really isn't in the mood for any of D's mind-games right now, especially not with Chris around to get spooked out by them. He scowls.

"Fuck's _sake_, D," he snaps. "It's a kid's party. You wanna joke around with me, fine, but you upset _him_ and I'll punch your fuckin' lights out."

D skewers him with a look, then, the usual mocking little smirk nowhere to be seen, the half of his face that isn't hidden under hair and shadow suddenly grave. Sad, even. Jeez.

"I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Detective," D says, very quietly. "I am not joking. Not at all." He sets the plate down in front of Leon, swallows, then smiles brightly. "Cake?"


	5. The Sweetest Thing

Week 5. Prompt: Chocolate

* * *

"That will be forty-three dollars, sir. Would you like those wrapped?"

Leon knows he's distracted when he forgets to even grumble at the girl behind the counter, just pulls a fifty out of his wallet and tells her to keep the change. But he can't help it-- his mind keeps wandering back to this afternoon, that Agent Howell guy, the way even the Chief seemed kind of, well, wary of him, and the steely, implacable look in his eyes when he talked about D.

Leon's already decided he doesn't like Howell. Which makes no sense-- they're both working towards the same goal, after all, and hell, he oughta be able to sympathize with anyone who D's pissed off-- but something about him just screams asshole. And now he feels weird about going to see D, like D will just know in that freaky, near-clairvoyant way of his, that Leon's been talking to him, or something in Leon's eyes or his manner will give the whole thing away.

The chocolates should mollify D, though, or at least keep him distracted long enough for Leon to clear his head. Christ, if he's gonna spend half his week's food budget on a box of candy, it had better be of some use to him.

Then Leon's cellphone rings, and he forgets all about D and Howell and the ridiculous chocolates, because it's Josie, calling to tell him that she and Sam are on their way to the airport.

Chris is going with them. Chris _chose_ to go with them.

And Leon knows he ought to be glad about that, but fuck if it doesn't feel like a punch in the gut, because Leon and D have been looking after him all this time, and the girls aren't even his real family and Leon _is_, and he didn't even get the chance to say goodbye.

So the box of chocolates gets tossed onto the passenger seat and left there, and then everything goes crazy and Leon doesn't even remember that they're there until weeks later, after he gets out of the hospital.

D is long gone by then, and the chocolates are just an expensive mess melting through onto the upholstery. It takes Leon close to an hour to clean the damn stuff off.

He sells the car when he leaves LA. But the first time he catches D's trail, in Berlin, he remembers that last box of candy he never gave D, and he hunts out the swankiest-looking chocolatier in the area before he sets off for Chinatown. The price tag's extortionate, and the temporary bar job he's taken doesn't exactly pay well, but somehow Leon can't quite bring himself to care.

Of course, by the time he manages to track down the petshop, it's empty. He leaves the box of chocolates on the dining table in his apartment when he moves out.

But he keeps on buying chocolates, every time he thinks he might be getting close. It's like a ritual. Like the sugar might somehow summon D to him, conjure him up out of thin air. But then there always was something about D that invited superstition, even before those weird-ass dreams Leon had while he was unconscious, before Howell started coming out with all that shit about how D and his family might not be human. (And sometimes Leon starts thinking that maybe it wasn't all shit, and that really scares him because he can't be sure it even matters, not now, not any more.)

In Paris, he gives the chocolates to a waitress in the cafe where he's sulking after D manages to evade him again. She's pretty, in a porcelain-doll kind of a way, and she giggles and slips him a napkin with her phone number on it with the bill. He doesn't call her.

In London, he's in a foul mood and the chocolates end up in the Thames.

In Hong Kong, he leaves them on a park bench for some passer-by to pick up.

In Tokyo, Leon's close to giving up. He doesn't bother looking for any candy stores, and after a month without leads he figure's the trail has gone cold. He'll move on as soon as he's worked his notice.

And he figures, what the hell. He only has a week left here, maybe two. He may as well enjoy himself. So he goes out and has a few beers, and when he's walking home past some shiny new mall complex just after one in the morning, he almost doesn't notice that the guy who elbows past him is muttering to himself in Mandarin, not Japanese. But he _does_ notice, and then a second later he realizes that not all the words were Chinese.

He recognized a couple of them. And the first one sounded a lot like 'Count'--

Something stops Leon from grabbing the guy's arm and asking. But he follows, at a discreet distance, as the guy walks into the mall, and, sure enough, there's a big, neon sign at the entrance proclaiming its name to be 'Neo Chinatown'. And on one of the upper floors there's a light on, and then he's sprinting up the stairs, not caring who sees him or what they thing, and there's a sign and a door he knows all too well, and--

And the only candy he has on him is half a packet of vending-machine Pocky that's gotten squashed from too long in his jacket pocket--

And then that doesn't matter, not even the tiniest bit, because the door's opening and it's _D_, it's really him, and the startled expression on his face slowly giving way to a smile is the sweetest damn thing Leon's ever seen.


End file.
